He Smelt of Spices
by Face to Face
Summary: Erik's been living alone in his lair since christine left. he craves company. one night he kidnaps christine and raoul's child. better than it sounds. please rr
1. Chapter 1

A/N: this fic is written by me and Hope4Faith. Please r/r. we'll love you forever if you do

Disclaimer: we don't own anything. however much we would love to own the phantom we know we'd only fight over him

He stood in the shadows watching the sleeping boy; he always watched him, he was his obsession. Dark eyelashes rested on porcelain cheeks. Dark wavy hair surrounded the beautiful little face as the chest rose and sank in the perfect rhythm of a peaceful sleep. Her child, a perfect little angel sent down from heaven. It should have been his little angel too, not that boy's, so sure of himself, he had stolen her away and his only chance of happiness. Why should he not take their happiness? Their child? Suddenly the child whimpered, as if feeling the heated stare, it pulled the bedcovers up to cover himself. As silently as he had come, he disappeared again, the plan already forming in his mind. He would lay claim to that which was rightfully his. It would happen, and soon.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: this fic is written by me and Hope4Faith (my initial idea, she started writing it, I made it more flowery, I wrote a bit more…etc.). Please r/r. we'll love you forever if you do. sorry about the short chapters. I'm one of those irritating people that like to chop their stories up into really small bits.

Disclaimer: we don't own anything. However much we would love to own the phantom we know we'd only fight over him.

The night had just taken over from the half-light of the ending of a day. Darkness was his cover as he slipped soundlessly into the nursery. The flickering light of the candle reflected off the white mask that he wore. Approaching the sleeping child, he slipped his arm under the small body, using the other hand to wrap up the doll like child in the blankets that protected him from the harsh cold of the Parisian winter. Carefully he cradled him against his shoulder, soundlessly slipping out of the room and almost carelessly dropping a red rose tied off with a black ribbon onto the pillow which still held the indentation of the child's head. The child slept soundlessly in his arms, though a small, pale hand had grabbed hold of his cloak. Down they went, into his world, far away from the blinding sun that characterised the cruelty of the world above; the world that had so remorselessly shunned him. He placed the child on the bed, amongst the black satin covers in which his mother had once lain. His pale skin stood out sharply, the absence of colour in the covers only serving to highlight the child's fragility. He left the boy, drawing the curtains to shelter him from the world outside.

As the boy shifted in his sleep the haunting sounds of an organ drifted upwards and filled the silence. He never heard the child stir; too engrossed in creating his exquisite melodies. The child's eyes fluttered open, revealing beautiful blue sleep clouded irises. At first he simply lay amongst the satin sheets in confusion. Something seemed wrong, though in his sleep induced state he could not fathom exactly the cause of his discomfort. The sounds of the organ gradually filtered through into his consciousness; there was no organ at home. He sat up and frantically looked around. This was not his bed. The room was wrong too; it was too dark and too cold. The flickering, faltering light of the candles scared him. "Mother?" It was no more then a whisper. "MOTHER! FATHER!" A tremor swept through his small frame. Panic gripped him as he launched himself of the bed and ran out of the shelter that had been created for him. He slowed as he exited the safety of the bedroom; candles burned everywhere throwing haunting shadows against the damp, time roughened walls. He saw the outline of a man; a dark figure seated at an antique organ. His back was to him but he could tell that this was not his father.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: this fic is written by me and Hope4Faith (my initial idea, she started writing it, I made it more flowery, I wrote a bit more…etc.). Please r/r. we'll love you forever if you do. sorry about the short chapters. I'm one of those irritating people that like to chop their stories up into really small bits.

Disclaimer: we don't own anything. However much we would love to own the phantom we know we'd only fight over him.

His father was not as broad as this man, nor was his hair as dark, but more than that, his father could never have even dreamed of making such music as was filling the cavern. The man's fingers moved effortlessly, so gently it seemed as if he were caressing the smooth skin of a lover rather than the cold ivory of an organ's keys. Almost without noticing it leave the boys fear vanished. He was swept up in the music, his soul carried away to places he had never seen. All the spices and emotions of far flung lands were conveyed in the undulations of the notes. The music changed and he was swept away again, to a much darker place this time. The music told of fear and sorrow and of a life lived in loneliness. The boy grew scared. It seemed that he was no longer standing in a cavern, miles below the streets of Paris. He was in the world of the music, a dark and terrible place with no love, and no hope.

The music stopped and the boy returned to the present. He was still standing in the cavern, his bare feet cold in the slight slime on the rocks. It seemed an eternity before he could even bring himself to take a breath, but when he did all his fears returned to him. Who was this man that now sat so silently at his organ? He felt drawn to him. His feet moved without him commanding them to. He was now standing at the man's shoulder. The man smelt of the spices he had heard in the music. He seemed almost more enigmatic close up. How was it that he was not afraid of this man? He knew that he should be, but surely someone who could write such beautiful music could not be a bad person.

"Quel est votre nom?"

The voice startled him. It was deep, demanded an answer. It was an entrancing voice and yet it was tinged with a note of bitterness and sadness. He was frightened, he wanted to be back in his nursery, in his mother's arms, with her reading him stories of princes and princesses. He shivered; the thin white cotton nightgown could not keep him warm enough in this damp and dismal place.

"Je demande votre nom!"

The child flinched; he was used to quiet voices, gentle voices that lulled him to sleep or laughed with him. No one at home spoke to him so harshly, no one demanded of him. Yes, his tutor may have been strict, but even he spoke to him in a kind and friendly voice.

"VOTRE NOM!"

The little boy wanted to run, but there was no where to go and his feet seemed anchored to the floor. Big frightened eyes looked for a way to escape. The man still had his back to him; maybe he would not see him run. He backed away, but lost his footing on the slippery rocks and plunged into the ice waters below. The man was there, faster then he could think, pulling him out and cradling him gently against his chest. Lucien coughed; he had swallowed some of that vile murky green water. The man sat him down on the stool in front of the organ. The child did not move he was frozen in shock and the man returned so quickly with a thick blanket that he wrapped around him and pulled half over his head, that he had no time to do anything. Once again he was picked up and cradled gently against the man's chest. He didn't want that embrace though, he wanted his mother and father and he wanted to get away from the eerie flickering candles. He was placed in the bed with the dark satin sheets once more.

"Your name child, tell me your name."

The voice was calm now, lulling him into a trance like state where nothing mattered except hearing that voice.

"Monsieur, je m'appelle Lucien."

"Good child. Now sleep little angel, daylight comes sooner then you can think." A leather-clad hand gently brushed over his eyelids, compelling him to close them, and a soft voice hummed the tune his mother always sang to him at night and so he drifted into a restful slumber dreaming of princes slaying dragons.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: this fic is written by me and Hope4Faith (my initial idea, she started writing it, I made it more flowery, I wrote a bit more…etc.). Please r/r. we'll love you forever if you do. sorry about the short chapters. I'm one of those irritating people that like to chop their stories up into really small bits.

Disclaimer: we don't own anything. However much we would love to own the phantom we know we'd only fight over him.

"Have you heard? There's another ghost. One of a little child."

"Yes, I saw him, a little boy, in a white night gown and bare feet. He was so pale."

"With dark hair and cornflower blue eyes they say."

"Margerie saw him too, he was standing on the stairs leading to the basement and he was crying but when she looked again he had disappeared and all there was was darkness."

The gossiping in the practice room died down as the strict ballet mistress entered. She rapped her cane sharply on the floor and the ballerinas started on their new dance, though all of them were spending more time on wondering about the new little ghost that had apparently moved into the opera house than on where they placed their feet. You only ever caught a glimpse of the ghost before the shadows swallowed him again. Some said he was one of the Phantom's victims, others said he kept the opera ghost company and yet others said that he had appeared through a curse that had been placed on the Phantom by some gypsies. It did not even enter the minds of any of them that perhaps this boy was real. The fear of the opera ghost had been present in the conscious of the opera house for so long now that no one questioned the truth behind the legend, so the appearance of a new ghost was not so hard to believe.

It need not be said that the ballet mistress was not too impressed with the level of concentration of her dancers. Several stern rebukes were handed out, which usually would have reduced the girls to weeping bundles of nerves, but it seemed that she had lost her touch, because the only effect of her anger was to increase the ceaseless background whisper and proliferation of sloppy footwork and hand positions. Madame Giri knew the reason for their inattention and, truth be told, was in fact rather more agitated then all of her girls put together. If there was a young boy (boy that is, not ghost because Madami Giri did not believe in ghosts) that meant that _he_ must still be alive. Le fantôme was the only explanation for this new apparition. She would not interfere though. Last time someone had meddled in his affairs people had died. Madame Giri would not have that blood on her hands this time.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: this fic is written by me and Hope4Faith. Please r/r. we'll love you forever if you do. sorry about the short chapters. I'm one of those irritating people that like to chop their stories up into really small bits. Thank you soooo much to the people who have reviewed.

Disclaimer: we don't own anything. However much we would love to own the phantom we know we'd only fight over him.

Lucien opened one eye and glanced over to the stool in front of the organ. It was empty. The man was gone. He didn't know where the man went when he wasn't there, he didn't want to know. Now was his chance to get out of this place, but every time he had tried to escape so far, the man had found him and brought him back down here. He crept quietly out of the bed taking care not to make too much noise in case he heard, and sped up the stairs. Fear of what the man would do to him, were he to find out that he had run off once more, lent him extra speed. The steps were steep and led to a labyrinth of tunnels that ran beneath the opera house. How often had he already been lost, so terrified that he could not keep his tears from flooding down his pale cheeks, only to end up somewhere in a strange room. Sometimes, before the man took him back he would see a few people rushing past, but none of them were familiar. He fled, blindly up the passage, his nightgown billowing out behind him. His feet made no sound as he ran; sound would have given him away. The man seemed to hear, see and know everything. He heard giggling coming from the along the passageway to his right, he ran towards the sound that had not escaped his lips for how long he did not know. Days and Weeks and Months did not seem to matter down here. Day and night seem to merge into one when you cannot see the sun that distinguishes between them. The man would never give him an answer when he asked what day it was. Sometimes Lucien wondered if he even knew. He could see light coming from under a door now. He was close, so close that he could almost reach it, but almost was not enough.

His fingers were close enough to feel the cold emanating from the smooth metal of the door knob when a hand grabbed him around the face and pulled him sharply backwards. He fell into the man's chest with a grunt, not expecting the force behind the hand.

"S'il vous plaît monsieur. S'il vous plaît ne pas me blesser. Je suis désolé. Please do not hurt me."

As usual the man was deathly silent as he half dragged, half carried the child back to his lair. The quiet was more frightening to Lucien than even harsh words would have been. He understood harsh words. Most of the words that deigned to exit from this man's mouth were harsh; ordering him about, shouting at him. Even his softer words carried a hidden strain of menace. Down once more they went into the blackness and despair of his layer. He was furious this time; the child felt it, as the arm that held him nearly broke his ribs. The man flung him onto the bed, not caring if the child landed softly or not, then he stormed over to the organ and proceeded to pound the keys with all the anger coursing through his body escaping into the music. Lucien watched him, his eyes wide and frightened. The music stopped as abruptly as it had started. The man spun round to look at him.

"You are mine little angel. You belong to me. Your wings will not carry you to the light of day. YOU ARE MINE!"

He's mad; Lucien thought and tried to back away only to meet the hardness of the bed head. He wanted his mother. The man looked so furious, so utterly capable of doing nearly anything to him. Why was no one looking for him? Did anyone know of this man's existence? Tears streamed down his cheeks and he desperately suppressed a sob. The man came over and grabbed his arms.

"Curse you little angel! You are mine, should have been mine from the start." He shook him. "Do not run away again. You cannot escape the darkness so just give yourself up to it. Sing little angel, sing to the darkness."

"I don't understand monsieur."

"SING!" The man shook him again. Lucien began to cry in earnest, he was petrified, his little hands tried to push the man's arms away; white porcelain like hands that looked frighteningly ghost like, even to himself. The man shouted at him, shook him, cursed him and the tears continued to fall, sobs racked the small body, a wail escaped his lips, so loud that even the people up in the strange house above must have heard it. Suddenly, as quickly as he had begun the man stopped shaking him and drew him into a gentle embrace. A voice drifted into his frightened mind; gentle sounds soothed his terror. The song drifted through the caverns, the child calmed, his eyelids slid shut. Tear streaks stained his white cheeks; dark eyelashes flickered slightly, as he was gently rocked back and forth.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: this fic is written by me and Hope4Faith. Please r/r. we'll love you forever if you do. sorry about the short chapters. I'm one of those irritating people that like to chop their stories up into really small bits.

Disclaimer: we don't own anything. However much we would love to own the phantom we know we'd only fight over him.

"Raoul, we have to do it. I cannot leave my son with that monster."

The Countess De Chagny sat in the hard wooden chair opposite her husband in a position that had become so familiar in such a short time. She had spent hours pleading with him to rescue her child. Why he would not agree to try and help was beyond her. Did he care nothing about his own son? Since Lucien had gone her life had become unbearable. Raoul hardly seemed to notice her anymore. She could barely remember a time when he had. Life with Raoul should have been perfect; the fairytale she'd always dreamed of, but the reality had turned out somewhat different. As soon as she'd given him Lucien he'd lost interest. She no longer had the figure she'd had before her child, though she was no less beautiful. At first he'd wanted her to sing for him, but the passion no longer came. It was if her soul had become stifled. Singing was different without her Angel. Her Angel…… It was strange how she still thought of him as that. After all he was just a man, nothing more and nothing less and now that man had now taken her child.

As soon as she'd entered Lucien's room that night she'd known something was wrong. The candles were burnt nearly to the base but she was sure they had been blown out when she had put her son to sleep. The covers on the bed were rumpled but they were still too flat……and too still. She had rushed over to the bed and thrown back the cover, knowing but not wanting to believe what she would see. In her action she had disturbed the pillows at the head of the bed and as she collapsed to the ground in shock she saw a blood red rose roll off the bed and onto the floor by her hand. With tremulous fingers she had reached out for it, feeling the silk of the black ribbon tied around the stem brush against her fingers like a cobweb. It was from him; her Angel. Except that he wasn't her Angel, not anymore. He had tried to keep her, to take her life from her, and now he'd done more than that, he'd taken her child.

PhantomFreak07- thanks for pointing the Giri/Giry thing out. I always spell it wrong. Grr. Oh and Lucien is 8 years old.

Opera Dove- I'll translate the French from now on, though I'm not sure how perfect it is. It's been rather a long time since i studied it.

Just for catch up here is the French from the previous chapters:

Quel est votre nom? What is your name?

Je demande votre nom. I demand to know your name.

Je m'appelle... My name is...

S'il vous plaît ne pas me blesser. Please do not hurt me.

Je suis desole. I am sorry.

S'il vous plait. Please


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: this fic is written by me and Hope4Faith. Please r/r. we'll love you forever

Disclaimer: we don't own anything. However much we would love to own the phantom we know we'd only fight over him.

Christine was lost in her memories and hardly noticed a stray tear that had escaped her control. Within seconds that single crystal like tear drop had turned into an unstoppable torrent, of an outpouring of her terror and grief.

"Stop crying Christine, we will just have another child."

It was said so emotionless, so nonchalantly that the words stopped her tears in their tracks. How could he say something like that? How could he be so uncaring for their baby? He had helped create their child. Did he feel nothing for him?

"How could you Raoul, he is our child, do you not want him back? He is your son."

"He is more like a little girl, you pampered him so. He is too fragile and pretty, no use as a strong son. You can give me a better son now."

Christine felt her heart break, shatter into a thousand pieces. It was long since she'd believed in the illusion of love but she had at least thought that Raoul cared for their child. She thought again of Lucien. He was so young, so innocent. Se knew he would be frightened, and maybe he would even try to flee. What would the Angel do when angered? Would he hurt her little boy or maybe even kill him? No, she could not imagine that of him. For all his cruelty she could not bring herself to think that he would harm her Lucien but still, she could not leave her son to a lifetime of darkness.

"If you will not do anything Raoul, then I will. I will go to the opera house and find our child. My little Lucien, how can you not love him? How can you not!"

Without a thought for the snow falling outside Christine ran. If the residents of Paris were surprised to see a well dressed young woman running down the cobbled streets as if the devil pursued her they did not show it. Most likely no one saw though; No one who could track the desperate plight of the Countess De Chagny.

More than once her feet scrambled for purchase on the icy streets but she somehow kept upright and was past the danger before gravity claimed her. God was with her this evening (if such a person exists) and before long she had reached the square outside the opera house. She stopped at the base of the steps, lungs screaming for oxygen and heart almost pounding out of her chest. Her muscles had started trembling and blood was pooling in her legs causing her to collapse to the ground in agony. Somehow, despite a body ready to give up, Christine hauled herself to her feet again and, step by painful step, she slowly made her way up to the doors of the opera house. With a force caused by desperation rather than and real strength she hammered against the doors, not caring whom she was disturbing. A rather annoyed footman opened the door and glared at her.

"What do you want Madame?"

"Please! Let me in. I have to see Madame Giry. I have to."

The man felt sorry for her, she was obviously not one of those awful peasants who spend all of their time trying to scrounge money out of the opera house and its patrons. In fact she looked like a lady of some standing, despite her current state of disarray. He let her in and showed her to Madame Giry's rooms.

"She will be here when the performance finishes."

Then he left. She sat there, in that oppressive silence, hoping that her baby was alright; hoping that Madame Giry might know where he was, might have seen him, might just have even a small piece of advice to give. That is when she heard it, when her fretting mind was over sensitised and picking up on the faintest of stimuli. It was a gentle voice, floating towards her, so sweet and soft that you wouldn't have heard it had there been other sounds.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: this fic is written by me and Hope4Faith. Please r/r. we'll love you forever

Disclaimer: we don't own anything. However much we would love to own the phantom we know we'd only fight over him.

"That was better child, but I want more. You sing as if it is something to be ashamed of. Never be ashamed of your voice for it is the only way your soul can express itself. Humans have the most inadequate language for love and passion. We can never find the words for the strongest of our emotions. That is why we have music. It is a gift. Use it. Now sing again."

He gestured to the boy to begin. It was a graceful movement; a slow, elegant unfurling of the hand and wrist. It drew the child towards him. The man was so infinitely powerful and irresistible. Lucien would have done whatever he was commanded by the man even had it been to throw himself into the fires of hell. He thought about the man's words. They were hard for a child to comprehend but he had seen such anguish in the man's eyes when he spoke them that he knew they were the truth. Lucien knew little of love, no more than that of a mother and her son, and even less of passion, but looking again at the eyes behind the mask he found that through this man he might be able to know them. Those eyes held the depths of the world and took Lucien places he could scarcely imagine. Never once taking his eyes of that masked face he sang again. This time his voice soared. The tremulous half notes and slightly unsure melodies were gone. This was the voice of an angel.

Erik watched the boy intently as he sang. He could hardly tear himself away. The young soprano's eyes held him gripped in their intensity. As he played out the undulations of the score on his beloved organ Erik felt some of the well of anger and bitterness that had been building up inside him start to dissipate. Music had always been able to calm his soul but recently he'd found that he had been unable to access it. His loneliness and frustration had built up more than he'd realised and releasing some of it was a cathartic feeling. The music almost poured out of his fingers and without realising it he'd increased the tempo and power of his playing. The boy was no longer singing but merely watching as this man, who seemed to distil all of the grief in the world into those vibrant notes. It was as though the devil himself wept teardrops of pure sound.

Lucien found that he could not move. He was frozen, spell bound by this music. How a man could produce sound such as this he did not know. The music stopped, the man's fingers stilled, hovering above the keys. For a short time neither moved, frozen, the angel child and the devil man.

"Sing again little angel, the darkness wants you to sing. I need you to sing."

"I am tired monsieur."

He had sung for so long, how long he did not know but he knew that he was tired. The man however was strict, sometimes making him sing and sing, and always he would say that he should sing to the darkness. The darkness, it was always the darkness that demanded his voice, what else would the darkness demand of him. Sometimes Lucien wondered if this man was planning some sort of ritual with him, like the barbarians he had heard and read about in his history lesson. But such thoughts most often then not disappeared when the man begun to play or sing and he was once again woven into a trance. Of course Lucien did not know that Erik was as mesmerized by him as he was by Erik.

"Just once more child. Sing just once more."

The voice came quietly but insistently. Once again Lucien found himself compelled to obey this man, this Angel of Music.

Lucien raised his voice, the clear sounds rising to the roof of the cavern and beyond. Angelic tones, tones of the light. Yes, this was his little child of the light. Some people would say that his voice came from God himself, but Erik knew of God; he knew of his cruelty; how it made even his own malice look pale and insignificant in comparison. Yes, Erik knew of God. This child however was not part of the cruel being he had come to know; he was something even more intangible. If there were such things as angels then this boy would surely be one. To Erik angels were beings of purity with heavenly voices that raised your spirits. To Christine he himself may have been an angel but in his heart he knew that though he may have the voice of one he most certainly did not have the soul of one. Lucien however was another matter. He truly was an angel, his angel sent down from heaven to release him from his torment, or maybe to add to it.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: this fic is written by me and Hope4Faith. Please r/r. we'll love you forever

Disclaimer: we don't own anything. However much we would love to own the phantom we know we'd only fight over him.

Christine was still waiting in Madame Giry's room when she heard the voice again. Her frenzied activity earlier had taken its toll on her body and she was dozing off to sleep, sitting slumped in a rather comfortable chair in the peaceful room. Somehow the sound of the singing managed to penetrate through the mist fogging up her mind. She recognised it as the same voice as the last. It had a different quality to it this time though. It had a fuller sound. For a moment she thought she recognised something of it but then dismissed it as childish fantasy. Her brain must have been more stressed than she realised. How could she be conjuring images of her little Lucien singing accompanied by an organ? Lucien! Phantom! She remembered now. That was why she was here! How could she have forgotten? No, she hadn't forgotten, she had just….. She had come to see Madame Giry for help.

Madame Giry entered her room, and was astonished to find her erstwhile charge sitting slumped in one of her chairs. She rushed over to her, wondering what could have happened, to bring Christine here in this state of obvious distress.

"Ma cher! What 'as 'appened? What is ze matter?"

"Oh Madame Giry!" Christine began to cry, she was so desperately in need of help. "He has taken him! My little boy! S'il vous plait! You have to help me!"

Christine was now clutching at Madame Giry's skirts, the tears of helplessness flowing down her cheeks. Madame Giry felt faint, la fantome had Christine's child. That must be the "ghost" child they had seen. How could she not help Christine, even though she had sworn to keep out of it this time? She felt tormented by guilt, helplessness and knowledge. She thought about how frightened the child must be, how much Christine despaired. Yes, she would help her, one last time.

"I will 'elp you but you must be quiet child. Follow me. Come quickly."

Madame Giry hurried out, Christine followed her, picking up her skirts and running. She was lead through a whirl of tunnels and catacombs until Madame Giry stopped halfway down a nearly pitch black passageway.

"I will not go any further; I will wait for you 'ere. Go now and get your child."

Christine hurried off. After what seemed like hours wandering through dark passageways she saw a light and heard those angelic sounds again. She willed her feet to move faster, but the only speed she could produce now was barely a jog. She stumbled in, HE was sitting at the organ playing, the music still as beautiful as she remembered, and there was her little boy, her little Lucien, dressed only in the white nightgown he had been taken in. Lucien saw her.

"MAMAN!"

He wanted to run over to her, but the man had caught him faster then he could think and was holding him by the waist.

"YOU CAN'T HAVE HIM HE'S MINE!"

With that Erik took of, carrying the struggling child with one arm. Lucien screamed, getting louder and louder, the further he was taken from his mother. Christine followed them, but she didn't know the passages as Erik did. Lucien's panic increased as his mother disappeared from his view. He kicked out at Erik and flung his little fists everywhere, hoping the man would drop him for just a second. His screams reverberated around the caverns. Suddenly a hand was clamped over his nose and mouth. The air was getting thinner by the minute and Lucien terror grew to unknown heights. He opened his mouth and bit down as hard as he could into the man's hand. Erik was furious, he flung the child away. The force catapulted Lucien against one of the stone walls with almost bone shattering intensity.

"CURSE YOU!"

Lucien heard the man's steps coming towards him. He stood up feeling dizzy and faint, his head ached and something seemed to run into his eyes making it hard to see. His wrist ached badly, but still he ran, his fright lending him the extra strength and speed he needed. As he rounded a corner he collided with someone. Once again he fell to the floor. Lucien whimpered and glanced up at the non-familiar face, it was a woman.

"Quiet child, I will take you to your mother."

She picked him up, and they were off, running through the confusing maze of tunnels that stretched under the entire length of the Parisian opera house.

He heard Erik screaming something and cowered away, hiding his face in the strange woman's dress. He did not know who she was but at least she wasn't shouting. Before too long they had arrived in a small, brightly lit room with comfortable furnishings. He was placed gently on one of the chairs and told not to worry, that he was safe now. The strange woman bustled around the small room with an efficiency sprung from long familiarity and before long had produced a handkerchief with which to dry his eyes, a rug to wrap around his shaking torso and a whole multitude of bandages which she proceeded to wrap around the parts of him that had connected with the wall. After a while Lucien started to relax, this woman wasn't going to hurt him. In fact, she had just smiled at him.

Back in the labyrinth Erik had stopped shouting. He had lost the child, but he did not for one moment think that he would fail to get him back. Long strides ate up the distance back to his lair where he stopped to take stock of what had just happened and how he was going to rectify the problem. For once he did not sit at his organ to pound out his thoughts into music. He simply sat, frozen in silence, and tried to make order of his muddled brain.


	10. Chapter 10

Christine started down the next filthy, cold, wet passageway, unable to determine which direction led anywhere, let alone back to the theatre. She had tried, but failed to get her son back. Raoul was right, she was useless. Maybe it would be better if she just died down here. It wasn't as if she was going to be able to make her body carry her much longer anyway. The floor was hard and uninviting but Christine had no strength left to care anymore. She sat and let her head drop into her hands, long blonde hair falling in front of her face. Before long she had fallen asleep. It was a harsh nightmarish sleep, full of images of a distorted face and screams of terror. In the darkness she whimpered.

Erik had just made up his mind to venture up to the theatre to find Madame Giry and bully her into telling him where Christine had gone, for she would of course know all about this, when he heard the faint sound. It sounded childlike but he could tell without even thinking about it that it did not come from the boy. He could not think who else it could be though. Christine would have found her son now, and made her way back up to the theatre with him, and surely no one else was fool enough to have wandered down here by mistake. Silently he slipped from his seat and made his way towards the sound. Peering through the gloom he could just make out a figure huddled up on the floor. Carefully, ready to react in an instant if anything were to happen, he made his way closer. As his eyes adjusted to the dark he was able to see that the figure was indeed Christine. Blonde hair was streaked with dirt and her beautiful dress was barely recognisable anymore. She lay in the grime, seemingly fast asleep. For one moment Erik had the thought to kill her now as she slept unaware but the thought was gone in a flash and before he could order himself any differently he had picked his Christine up and carried her back to his lair.

As Christine slept on, wrapped up in the blankets that had until recently kept her son warm Erik paced, raging at his own stupidity. Once again he could feel himself falling for this beautiful girl. Despite all she had done he still loved her, he had never stopped. All it took was one sight of her and he acted like the monster he was. The more he thought though the more he realised that this time had been a little different. Hadn't he tried to keep the boy? He had seen Christine but had still tried to keep hold of her son. He loved the boy. No that was wrong; he loved Christine. The more he tried to sort how he felt the more entangled those thoughts became. Understanding was beyond his grasp and he could feel himself losing hold of his tenuous grip on sanity and slipping a little further into madness.

He paced more vigorously cursing more and more under his breath. He glanced at the bed again, she lay so still. A tiny sliver of reality struck into his madness. He turned cold. If she didn't have her child, then where was he? A million possibilities crowded his mind. Had he got lost? Was he wandering around the tunnels seriously injured? He would never forgive himself if the child came to harm. What to do with Christine though? Yes, he would take her and leave her at the end of a tunnel, she need never know. Gently he picked her up and carried her up one of the passages that lead to the opera house, leaving her at the top of the stairs he descended to search for the child. He had only gone a few steps before he took one last glance at Christine. What he saw in her face broke his heart. She was the picture of despair. He knew exactly how she felt; what is was like to have someone, but then to lose them. Maybe he could give the boy back. Maybe that would be best after all, at least he could cope with loss; hadn't he done it before? He could just go back to being alone, again.

Madame Giry stroked the little boy's hair. He was a pretty child, pale china like and so fragile that when she had bandaged him up, she had been afraid to break him or do more damage. She hoped Christine was alright. A faint crying sound made her open her door and look outside, there lain in a heap was Christine. One of the stage workers was just walking past, so she called to him. He carried Christine in and placed her on the couch. Madame Giry thanked him, and sent him along, telling him to keep all of this to himself. She cooled Christine's forehead, which felt like it was on fire. The poor child, she thought, Christine does not deserve this. The hours passed before either of her patients opened their eyes and when they did, the reunion was wonderful.


	11. Chapter 11

The church was cold and the congregation were dressed as warmly as possible. The steam rose from the many breaths. Lucien stood at his mothers side, the collar of his cloak was turned up. It was the first time after his illness that his mother had taken him to church. The illness seemed like a distant memory, not even a memory really, he couldn't believe that all those things that had seemed so real, had only been feverish dreams. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something about what his mother told him was wrong. He didn't understand why he still had nightmares and woke up screaming, frightened by flickering candles or feeling like someone was watching him. Actually, he felt like that now as the chords of the organ floated through the church. The playing sounded so familiar, he felt compelled to sing. Raising his voice he sang, the congregation fell silent one by one wondering where that heavenly voice came from. Raoul frowned at Christine, he wanted to silence their son but his arm could not reach as far to clap a hand over the boy's mouth. Lucien was drawing unwanted attention towards them. He would have to have words with the boy about this, that much was clear. It was time the boy learned discipline and started acting less like a molly coddled little girl and more like the strong heir he should be. He wasn't even certain that the boy was his true heir. Christine had never said anything to him suggesting that he was not his child but there was always a nagging thought in the back of his mind that it wasn't really him that Christine had wanted; that maybe she felt more for the monster than she admitted. It wasn't as if she'd told him much about what had happened between her and the Phantom, in fact she hardly spoke a word about it. Whatever it was that happened it had changed her. She was more withdrawn now, not even music seemed to inspire her anymore. In truth Raoul was jealous. Why she should care more for that foul creature than for him was beyond comprehension. Every time he looked at the child his jealousy took a firmer grip on his heart. It wasn't impossible that the boy was the Phantom's. He sang like an angel and, when he thought about it, even looked a little like an unblemished version of the Phantom. He had the same thick dark hair and almost impossible coloured eyes. Raoul spent the rest of the service glaring at Lucien rather than paying any attention to the sermon. When it ended and everyone crowded outside he ushered his family into the carriage without waiting to exchange pleasantries with any of the other parishioners. During the journey back home he didn't say a word but kept glaring at their son who had snuggled up to his mother. Once they arrived at home, he ordered Lucien into his study, shutting the door with a menacing click behind his son.

"You are a disgrace. What did you think you were doing embarrassing us so in front of the whole congregation?"

"Father, I don't understand what I did to displease you. All I did was sing."

"Insolent boy. Did you not notice that everyone was staring at you!" His father's voice was harsh, but not harsh like that voice out his dream but cruel and dripping with distain. "you are not worthy of being my son! You are weak and pathetic and girlish. You are too pretty, too soft, your eyes are far too full of the devil."

Lucien's eyes widened and swam with tears, he didn't understand what he had done to offend his father so. His father backhanded him, sending him sprawling to the ground.

"God you disgust me. Put away those useless tears. If I see you cry once more in my presence I shall whip you. It is time you learned discipline. Now get out of my sight."

Lucien fled from the study, throwing himself onto his bed, trying to stifle his sobs with the soft silken pillow. His father had never hit him before, nobody had. Nobody? He frowned, there was that inkling again that his dream hadn't really been a dream. Tears still streaked down his cheeks, and he cried until he fell into a restless slumber, whimpering slightly every time he twisted and turned in his bed. Christine came to sit at her son's bedside after he had fallen asleep. Raoul had forbidden her to see him when he was awake. She stroked his dark hair out of his face and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. One of his cheeks was scarlet still where her husband had struck him. She too cried, wishing that she could at least spare her son this hell that was turning out to be Raoul.

Erik watched them from the shadows he still watched the sleeping child from. He felt anger and bitterness and most of all hate towards that man who had stolen Christine and was now causing her, and especially his little pure angel so much hurt and grief. Little did he know it at that moment, but he would be spending a lot more time watching from the shadows in the years to come.


	12. Chapter 12

(2 years later)

"Lucien, come here," Raoul ordered of his now 10 year old son. Lucien obeyed the command and went to stand in front of his father whilst he was silently appraised. Raoul swept his eyes over the boy, noting gladly that he was at last starting to look a little less feminine. The boy was still far from satisfactory in his opinion. His face remained soft rather than gaining hard masculine lines and too much time was given over to books and art, leaving his sword fighting woeful. He could still catch the boy staring off into the distance humming a tune unaware of his father's stern gaze. All of his attempts to turn him into the strong heir he required seemed to be failing. Oh, he could certainly put on a show of proprietary in public, and would perform his duties without question, but underneath he was little changed.

Once Lucien had questioned his father about the dreams he had but had been met with a stern reproach forbidding him to speak of them again. Forbidding him to talk of them had not stopped them occurring though; in fact they had only become more vivid. Almost every night Lucien found himself transported to that dark underground place with the man in the mask. Often he would find himself running from this man, only to wake up in the middle of the night bathed in sweat certain that he'd just seen a shadow move outside his window. The dreams plagued his nights and often found themselves surfacing in the day time too. The only thing that kept them at bay was music. He had tried singing to distract himself but that had only incensed his father so he had taken to playing music in his head. He found it hard to understand why he was not allowed to sing. Why it should upset someone so was beyond his comprehension. He had tried asking his mother but he had been caught creeping along to her room and soundly beaten. He hadn't tried again.

Erik still returned to watch the boy. Night after night he could be found sitting on the broad windowsill, keeping the winter chill out with his cloak. The boy's sleep was restless and had been ever since he had returned home. Erik cursed the boy's father yet once more for his cruelty towards the child. He sometimes even considered that his own cruelty looked pretty humane in comparison to what the Count put his child through. He slipped quietly into the room and dropped a sheet of notes onto the foot end of the boy's bed. His inspiration to compose, which had vanished as Christine had abandoned him in favour of her vicomte, had returned in full force. He hadn't been able to resist, he had to write something for the boy, for that beautiful, clear, angelic voice. For three days he had gone without sleep or nourishment as he feverishly allowed the music to flow out of his soul. The boy stirred and murmured in his sleep and Erik fled, leaving no sign of his presence other than the slight ripple of air upon the curtains, nothing more than a mere shadow amongst shadows. Later in his lair he paced, cursing the world and anything that came into his mind, cursing himself for ever having laid eyes on that angel child and his mother. Ha! He should have kept her, she would have been better off with him than with that ridiculous waste of life husband of hers, and if it had been his child he would have treasured it. How often did angels simply fall out of heaven and into you lap? Anger surfaced again. He sat down at the organ, hammering at the ivory keys. His child, HIS CHILD! IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN HIS CHILD! He sent his hands crashing down on the organ keys once more, the discord echoing eerily off the walls of the great cavern and fading away into nothingness leaving Erik slumped over his precious organ, exhausted.


	13. Chapter 13

Lucien awoke early the next morning to find sheets of paper resting at the foot of his bed. The writing on the top sheet was neither his mother's nor his father's. Curious to know more and certain that the papers were connected with his dreams he leant forward. The shadow, no not a shadow, a man, he was sure it had been a man, had only disturbed the curtains but he felt for certain that it had not simply been a dream. He picked up the papers only glancing at the title on the front page before turning over to find music, such beautiful music. He recognised it straight away; it was the music from his dreams. Memories flashed in to his head, not dreams but real memories, a man, music, dark caverns, warmth, fright. Lucien clutched the pages closer as the memories grew more intense. He remembered singing, that man, the man from his window, yes he had been there, and he could find the way back. Gently he laid the pages onto his chair, dressed, throwing a cloak around his shoulders, clutched the pages to his chest and climbed out through the window. He ran to the stables, pausing only to make sure that he was not seen crossing the courtyard. In the stables stood his black stallion, which he mounted easily and rode out of the yard and into the chill of the morning. He knew where he was going, the music, the man, the Opera House.

Outside the Opera Populaire the ten year old boy drew his black horse to a skittering hold. He jumped off still clutching the pages to his chest with one arm. He led his horse round to the back of the Opera house and tied it up beside the stable. He spied a door leading into the opera house and opened it, tracing back a path only his head seemed to know. The members of the Opera house only saw a small shadow flitting by and he ran past. Some of the ballet girls screamed and then whispers about the little ghost were once again taken up, for the shadow had not been big enough to be la fantome. He flew down the stairs that led to the basement and made his way through cold wet passageways that would have confused most people, but something inside him knew instinctively which way to go. Sooner then he expected he saw a light coming out of one of the tunnels, slowed his pace and entered the cave in which the man sat bent over his organ, unmoving.

"What do you want here boy?" Lucien jumped, unwittingly taking a step backwards. "Do you fear me?" Lucien didn't know what to say, for to say no would have been a lie but to say yes, would also have been a lie, for he did not exactly fear the man yet he was not without fear. So he was silent and looked up at the man through long dark eyelashes. "What little angel? What do you want here?"

"Monsieur, je…" He held out the pages of music. "Vous avez écrit cette musique pour moi?"

"Oui, petit ange pour vous seulement pour vous."

"Mais, pour quoi monsieur?"

As the man did not answer him, Lucien stepped forward hoping to draw an answer from him. The man was an enigma to him; he knew he should be frightened after everything that had happened however he wanted something from this man, what exactly he did not know. He suddenly craved his company, the silences and the tantrums, somehow he understood those, much more than he could ever hope to understand his father's behaviour. The man turned away from him and proceeded once more to coax the music from his organ ignoring the small presence watching his every move. The boy stepped up close behind him and proceeded to stand at his shoulder, perfectly still, immovable like a marble statue created by Bellini's hands.

"What do you want here still? Go home you do not belong here." The boy smiled shyly, a faint colour tingeing his cheeks. He lifted his hand and let it hover over the man's shoulder only a fraction away from touching him. He felt a strange intimacy with this man, one he could not explain. Yet the distance that the man kept from him made him drop his hand to his side again.

"I don't know monsieur. All I know is that home is not home anymore." The boys eyes filled with pain, his innocence had been stolen from him, stolen never to be returned. He bit his lip, trying to keep the unbidden tears inside; a strangled sob escaped his lips. The man did look up, he hardly moved even to breathe but inside Erik was in turmoil. Curse this world and curse the child for coming back. What was he meant to do? His people skills were very thoroughly lacking in everyway possible and as he watched the boy struggle with his tears, he wanted nothing more then to drop him outside Madame Giry's door and let her cope with it. After all didn't she always stick her nose into his business otherwise? On the other hand however, to do so would create questions he had no wish to answer and some that he could not answer. The last time that Madame Giry had been to talk to him was after the last "incident" involving the boy. She had been rather less than pleased and had told him so in none too few words. He had allowed her to rant for a while before coldly ordering her out of his house informing her that his life was his own business and nothing to concern her. She had not been back since.

So, taking him to Madame Giry was probably not a viable option right at this moment. He allowed himself to steal a glance at the boy, quickly looking away again as his eyes met with the tear filled eyes of the child. Why was the boy staring at him so? He was probably wondering what lay beneath the mask, imagining all sorts of terrors which could only pale when faced with the reality. But he did not, and would not know. Erik would not allow that to happen. Erik? Oh god in heaven he was even thinking of himself in the third person now. Before his mind could stray once again into the borders of insanity he stood up and motioned to the child to sit down in his place.

"Asseyez vous."

"Pardon monsieur?"

"I said sit down child."

Lucien sat, unnerved by the sudden change in the man's attitude. One moment he could be as cold as ice and the next he could be asking you to sit while wiping the tears from your eyes and telling you to "hush". Yet again though, this did not bother him. There was something about this man that soothed him. Despite the harsh exterior he knew there was somewhere inside a grain of warmth and he was willing to endure the cold to find it. Carefully he raised a hand to touch the man's face in a silent vote of thanks. Before he could touch him though, he saw the man flinch away. Lucien's attention was drawn to the mask covering the man's face. Could that be the reason he did not wish to be touched? Whatever was under it was a mystery to him but he was in no hurry to find out. If the man wore a mask then he must have a good reason to do so. Though now he thought about it it was rather intriguing. He looked again at the man's face only to find him watching him with wary eyes. He raised his hand again, this time not drawing back when he flinched. Gently he laid his small palm on the unmasked cheek.

"Merci monsieur."

Erik drew back from the boy as if burned by the very fingers touching his cheek. No one touched him voluntarily. No one! No one should want to touch such a monster as him. But this boy……. He touched him. He did not seem scared or intimidated by his presence. He turned from the boy to pace his cavern mulling over this curiosity. Lost in his own thoughts he barely noticed the boy ask him a question.

"Que?"

"Comment appelez-vous?"

Erik stopped his pacing abruptly. His name? Why would anyone want to know his name? Not even Christine had asked him his name. In fact it had not been used since he was a child, and even then sparsely. With his mother it had more often been "monster" or "beast" and with the gypsies this theme had continued with him becoming "the devil's child." Madame Giry had known it but even with her it had barely been used and all too fast passed into the deep recesses of her memory. But this child wanted to know. He actually wanted to know what the monster was called. Erik almost laughed.

"Monsieur?"

"Erik. My name is Erik."


	14. Chapter 14

A/N thank you all my lovely reviewers. Cookies for everyone.

"Erik. My name is Erik."

The name sounded strange on his lips; unused. The child smiled, he actually smiled, his whole face lighting up. Erik was astounded, why did the child seem so joyful just because he had told him his name. He stared at the child.

"Erik." The name trilled over the child's tongue like the bubbling of a spring. Not that Erik had ever heard the bubbling of a spring, but that was beside the point. That laugh was certainly how it should sound. Nobody had ever said his name that way. He had heard it said in distaste, disgust, fear, anger but never with the utter happiness of comfort. In fact he had not ever heard it spoken with such care. "It means noble ruler. It is a nice name." Again the child smiled, and Erik felt like, yes, he felt like someone had warmed him a little bit from inside. Visions of past despairs suddenly flashed through his mind, and he suppressed the warm feeling. There was no need to open himself to further hurts.

"Don't be stupid child, it is just a name."

"But monsieur…" Lucien shifted on the bench, not understanding why the man seemed so cold again. He felt his head begin to ache. Had he offended him in some way? Or was smiling and being happy forbidden with him, as it had been with his father. His father had kept telling him, that he had to be serious. Thoughts of his father brought the hopelessness into his little face. No he wasn't going to return, no matter how much the man insisted. The man had wanted to keep him before, so why should he not want him now. But then again his father did not want him, the words echoed once again in his mind, 'too pretty, too soft, no son of mine' he had heard that so many times. What was wrong with him? He drew away from the man; yes of course how obvious, if his own father did not want him then this man would probably not want him either. He was an offence to society.

Erik watched as the boy slid off the organ stool and kept his face firmly turned away from him. 'He thinks I'm a monster, like everyone else.' He watched the child move away from him, and could not help feeling some pain, damn the child, damn himself for opening up.

"Je suis désolé monsieur. I did not mean to offend you with my presence." Lucien moved quickly towards the door, hiding his tears of pain as good as he could from the man named Erik.

"Offend me? Why should your presence be offensive to me?"

"Because monsieur, everyone finds me so. It is in my nature."

Erik stared at the child in disbelief. How could anyone find such a charming young man offensive? It was ludicrous to even suggest such a thing. To find his own presence offensive he could understand, even accept, after a fashion; but to say that about an unblemished faultless child was beyond comprehension.

"I do not find your presence to be offensive child. What gives you the idea that I think that?"

"Mais monsieur, everyone thinks so. My father……."

Erik felt his blood run cold. He should have guessed that that poor excuse for a man would be behind such a stupid notion. He was nothing more than a cold hearted fool obsessed with "honour" yet who had none in Erik's view. He had stolen his Christine and nearly broken him in the process and now he was destroying his own son. It must stop. He would have to protect this young man from the cruelties of his father's black heart.

Consumed in his own blind rage Erik paced the cavern unaware of the bright eyes watching him. Lucien could not fathom the exact cause of the man's sudden anger but at least it was not directed at him. He seemed to be muttering things like "damned fool" and "rich imbecile." It did not take long however for that vein of anger to wear out and for Erik to cease his pacing. He stood, motionless, for what seemed like minutes before turning to Lucien once again.

"You shall stay here child. I forbid you to return to your father."

Lucien stared, unable to believe the words that had just entered his consciousness. Stay? Here? He had not imagined that the man, Erik, would agree so easily, even ask him to stay. Without saying a word he stood up from the organ bench and slipped over to stand beside Erik. Slipping his arms around his waist he whispered "Oui monsieur, I should like that very much."

Feeling the thin arms encircle his waist Erik stiffened. People did not usually voluntarily embrace him. Not even his own mother…. Unable to comprehend the child's actions he pulled away but on seeing the child's face turn from joy to puzzled sorrow he reconsidered and instead pulled the boy close. They stood, arms locked tight around each other in silence, neither wanting to disturb this precious moment. Lucien could not help but think that this is how a father should be. This man seemed far more like a father than his ever had. He could tell that this man would not reject him as his father had; that he would want him and not care if he were to sing all day and all night. For Erik also this moment seemed a defining moment. He had never imagined it possible to feel this way about another human being. He had had so little human contact over years that his only emotions concerning others of his race included hatred and jealousy and in Christine's case obsessive love. This was different however. He felt bound to this child, wanting to protect him. He could not have described it as such but the feeling was of fatherly love and pride; something he had never received but had oft dreamed of.


	15. Chapter 15

"Raoul, Lucien has gone. _He_ must have taken him again. We must rescue him."

"I do not see why my dear Christine. We should just leave him with the monster. He never did us any good living here so why not give him to that creature as an exchange for giving me you back all those years ago."

Raoul laughed; a cold heartless laugh with no inkling of real mirth. Abandoning his son seemed a pleasurable idea to him. Maybe with that ridiculous child gone his Christine would return to her previous splendour. Since he had been born she had changed from being an entrancing angel into a run down old woman. He was hardly sure any more why he had ever married the woman. She hadn't turned out at all as he had imagined her to be. She was no longer the little girl who thanked him for retrieving her scarf from the sea. His family didn't like her much either. She wasn't of their status and she found high society terribly dull and constricting. No, looking back on it maybe they shouldn't have married. He should have left her to her monster in the deep and gone to pursue a real woman and not a little girl. What had Christine ever caused except trouble for him? He'd nearly been killed for her and she'd never seemed particularly grateful for the rescue.

Little did Raoul know that Christine was imagining almost the exact same thing. After all hadn't she chosen to stay with her angel of music before he'd let her go? She had never wanted to admit it to herself but to stay with him wouldn't have been so terrible. He had loved her to an extent she couldn't imagine and at the time that had scared her. She'd been little more than a child at the time, only a few years older than Lucien was now. A life in that darkness may not seem appealing but at least she could have sung. Raoul had forbidden her to sing, not wanting people to be reminded of the chorus girl she once was. Her angel would have encouraged her talent and embraced it and her soul would have soared rather than being stifled by her husband. He may have even accepted her child, his child.

Raoul watched Christine as she sat, her mind seemingly far away dreaming of things he could not see. When she was like this she was almost beautiful again. She did not have that wretched child to fuss over anymore and was improved immensely. What he needed was an heir, a strong heir, his rightful heir. The problem was the mother. Christine had failed once in her duty; perhaps she was never meant to be a mother at all. To look at she was, or at least had been, perfect. Maybe he could find a child from somewhere and keep Christine like this. He wouldn't take her to his bed again. In truth he had only done so once or twice. There had always been a burning sense that this was not how it was supposed to be, that Christine the throws of passion had been seeing another face in place of his. It had almost ripped his heart out to realise this at first but he had learned to harden himself to this; in fact he hardly thought about it at all anymore.


	16. Chapter 16

Erik pulled the black satin covers over the sleeping boy. He smiled; a strange phenomenon seemed to be occurring quite often lately. He stroked the dark hair away from his forehead and then went over to his organ. He sat down and coaxed some gentle notes out of the instrument. He didn't want to wake Lucien and anyway he found that he didn't feel so angry so often anymore. He was composing again, composing something with Lucien in mind. It was an opera, of course, about an angel banned from the place ordinary people called heaven because his voice was too sweet and he himself too pure. Erik struck out the notes half heartedly, somehow this idea now seemed ridiculous to him. It was too contrived, too saccharine. He would have to come up with something better for his little angel. It had been easier writing an opera for Christine because, after all, he had only used real people for his idea and the songs had been about how he felt. He tapped his pen on the paper and frowned. Once again he got up and walked over to the bed, just to check if Lucien's sleep really was as peaceful as it appeared.

For a long while he sat by the child's feet revelling in the quiet rise and fall of his chest and the innocence gracing Lucien's face. For once in his long and weary life Erik felt contented; he had something to live for. More than once before Erik had tried to take his own life. When in the depths of despair he had tried slitting his wrists and allowing his life to simply drain away. He had tried poison, a method of killing he had never particularly liked, only to awake a few days later feeling violently ill but most certainly alive. After that rather unpleasant experience he had decided that killing oneself was obviously not something that was meant for him. He had been angry with himself, finding his incapacity for suicide an interminable weakness but still not wishing to add to his list of failures in that department. Secretly he knew that if he truly wished to die then it would be all too easy. After all he was a master of the art of death. But deep down he found that he didn't want to die. There was a faint but lasting desire to keep going, just in case one day he might find a reason for having been brought into existence. As he sat on the velvet coverings Erik mused that me may just have found that reason; and he had also found the subject for his latest opera, himself.

Later that night, if someone had chanced upon the lair beneath the opera house they would have witnessed a remarkable scene. Erik, le fantome, the ghost, sat at his organ unmasked and unafraid. Music filled every corner the cavern. Music of a kind not heard before in that coldest of places. This music spoke of pain and anguish and of unimaginable horrors but beneath this it spoke of hope. Every now and again he would glance over at the child sleeping peacefully as if to remind himself of the reason for this hope and perhaps also to reassure himself of its existence. For hours he played, pausing only briefly to note down a phrase or two of particular quality. So intense was the catharsis that he failed to notice that the child had awoken from his slumber and had padded over silently to stand behind him. Only when a delicate hand alighted on his shoulder did he stop, frozen in fear.


	17. Chapter 17

Christine ran helter skelter through the darkened streets of Paris. Once or twice she felt hands grab at her, bony finger grasping and clutching, but none could keep hold before she was gone again on a quest none but she could divine. At last she could see her target ahead of her. She was so close now but her legs had turned to lead and every step was like running through treacle. As she moved forwards out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of Raoul reaching out to stop her; distracted, her foot caught on an awkward cobble pitching her to the ground. Within moments she was up, shaking and covered in sweat, but safe at home in bed.

This same nightmare had haunted her sleep for days now. Not once had she managed to reach her target before she encountered Raoul and falling, always falling, had woken up in bed. This night had been a little different though. She had seen them together waiting for her. He little boy sat safe in her angel's arms as they waited for her to reach them. She had seen their horrified faces as Raoul had emerged once again to send her back to her prison.

No more incentive was needed. She knew now for sure that they were waiting for her arrival. All she had to do was reach them. Quietly and efficiently Christine rid herself of the silken nightgown purchased at ridiculous expense by her husband and selected the most practical of the impractical dresses in her wardrobe. It had been a long time now since she had dressed herself, Raoul insisting that no wife of his should have to demean themselves by doing a maid's work, but her fingers knew their way around the complicated buttons and laces that would encase her. Stockings were all but forgotten, left neatly on the chair where her maid Marie had left them the night before. Shoes were more of a problem. A lady from the upper circles of society does not have what many would term "practical" shoes. Rows of elegant and dainty shoes lined the cupboard set aside for them but as any girl knows, high heels are simply not practical for running through cobbled streets. After a few minutes deliberation Christine decided that although, in themselves not practical, her ballet shoes would be the best option. Mercifully she had managed to save the pink satin articles from Raoul's revolution of her footwear and removed them from the box in which they had lain since the beginning of their marriage.

With ribbons wound and tied around still slim ankles and hair secured Christine made her way silently down the hall and out of the servants' entrance. Once in the street there was only a brief pause before she headed purposely towards the Opera Populaire. As in her dreams the streets were dark and treacherous, filled with the kind of people who only ventured out when more respectable persons were safely tucked away in bed. No hands clutched or grabbed at her though despite a few choice comments from some of the men and glares from most of the women.

In the Chateau De Chagny her husband had been awoken by the servant who had been paid a little extra for ensuring that his master's mistress stayed precisely where she was put. It was not long before Raoul was dressed and heading out into the night, determined to stop this for once and for all. His carriage laid waiting in the stable yard but he strode past it, eyes fixed on the horses' stalls. A groom came running out carrying a beautiful leather saddle handcrafted especially on commission for the Viscomte. Raoul watched impatiently as the young man saddled and bridled his mount, fingers fumbling at the catches in his haste. Before long he had pushed the groom aside and finished the job himself before leading the horse out to the mounting block and climbing on board. With a jab of his heels and a jerk in the mouth horse and rider clattered out of the iron gates and down the cobbled streets in pursuit of his erstwhile wife.


	18. Chapter 18

Slowly Erik turned to face Lucien. Fraction by fraction he revealed that visage that had lost him so much throughout his life. Most of his face was covered by twisted reddened skin stretching tightly over the bone beneath. Veins were visible in places and some patches of skin seemed almost translucent, exposing the twitching nerves and bone beneath. One cheek was sunken as if there were no bone to support the structures above. Hair lay patchily with scalp easily visible. The child's eyes widened in horror as the vision unfolded itself before him. His breath caught in his throat, the contents of his stomach rising alarmingly. Erik's eyes focused on the floor, unable to witness the scene before him. He had seen many reactions to his countenance during his life and none of them had been what one might term as "good" but none hurt him as much as this one. This was one individual who, more than anything else, he wished he could have spent more time. Silently he rose from his seat and the boy stumbled backwards falling heavily to the floor. Humiliation, pain and despair jostled for supremacy in Erik's troubled mind.

"Damn you! Damn your infernal innocence. Why couldn't you have just stayed away? You stupid child. You have destroyed everything."

With a strangled sob Lucien fled. Throwing himself into Erik's little library and bolting the door firmly behind him he collapsed to the floor. Laying still, ears straining, he listened to the sound of Erik weep. To Lucien it seemed that there were no sounds more heartbreaking that that muffled sorrow coming from the room directly next to his. To hear this man cry felt like the ground had just disappeared beneath him and he was falling endlessly into a black pit. Visions crowded between his eyes. Erik playing the organ, Erik standing quietly with his arms around him, that face… That face that did not fit the man he knew so well now. Even to think on it, to see that image in his mind, made his stomach clench and his head swim. Such a face surely belonged on the demons in the stories he had read, not on this kind man. How could such beauty and such horror belong together at all? It didn't make sense. In all the stories he had ever heard the ones with faces like that were always the evil ones, the kind that preyed on small children but that just didn't fit. Maybe it was like the other kind of stories where these things could be fixed with a kiss…. But no, that was ridiculous. His father had told him many times that his fairytales were simply stories and not to be dwelt upon. A kiss would solve nothing. A kiss could not heal a broken face.

Alone and exhausted Erik couldn't help but imagine what the child must have felt when he saw that face in front of him. He could see the fear well up behind those beautiful clear eyes and the hate that must surely follow. Pity too may come, but later, when the first wave of revulsion had passed. He cursed himself for being so foolish and allowing this to occur. He had single handedly destroyed a young man's innocence and trust. The life he had been planning for then crashed to the ground and shattered beneath his feet. Dazed he stumbled towards the far corner of his lair. Decisively he tugged at the red drape covering the antique mirror contained beneath. Expensive material pooled at his feet on the dank rock of the floor but Erik paid it no heed. The image before him held him in its grasp. A man looked back at him out of the mirror. The man was too tall and too thin clothed in seemingly immaculate dress that once you looked closer could be found bearing the tag "Opera Populaire costume department" on the labels. The face was the part that concerned him most though. It had never seemed to be quite part of the image that he saw of himself, yet as he raised a hand to his cheek the man in the mirror followed suit. Sad eyes looked out at him. Those eyes did not belong with that face. They held so much pain, but no one had ever stayed long enough or looked hard enough to notice.

He turned from the mirror and strode back to his organ. The white mask returned to his face and the wig covered what the mask could not. Long cloak fastened around his shoulders and black fedora angled to hide as much of the mask as possible Erik left his lair and ventured out into the maze of Parisian streets.


	19. Chapter 19

Christine ran as fast as she dared. Once or twice she thought that she could hear the metallic clink as iron horse shoes clattered along the cobbles. Instead of waiting around to see who the noise belonged too each clang drove her to run a little faster. Nearing the opera house she slowed down a little. It would not do to arrive flushed and out of breath. She had to keep her senses for the journey through the tunnels. At the end of the street she thought she saw a shadow pass and paused, wondering who that spectral blackness might belong to, half hoping it would be him. A figure emerged from that darkness ahead and she caught a glimpse of white flash from under the dark hat obscuring the man's face. This was like her dream, only Lucien wasn't with him now and there was no Raoul stopping her from reaching him. She was about to cry out when the sound of clattering of hooves grew so loud that it threatened to burst her eardrums. Christine turned towards the direction of the noise. Raoul reined in his horse, ready to grab his wife. The horse's muscles strained against the sudden weight of momentum, iron shoes failing to grip the slippery cobbles. Half a ton of horse flesh thundered unchecked into the frail body in its path. Bones crumpled and flesh ripped against the cold hard stone. The horse shuddered to a halt and Raoul looked down aghast at the body of his wife. Erik stood motionless, hardly able to breathe. Quickly his senses returned and he ran to Christine. Kneeling on the dirty street he cradled his angel's body in his arms, mindful of her injuries and not wanting to cause the slightest amount more pain than she already felt. Gently he kissed her forehead. He may have let this woman go but losing her hadn't stopped him loving every fibre of her being. Her husband had killed her. He had trusted De Chagny to look after her.

"You fool! You are nothing more than a stupid ignorant little boy. You have killed your wife. Are you happy now? You have killed my angel."

The torrent of words flowing out of his mouth quieted as a pale delicate hand was lifted and quietly laid on his cheek. Christine looked at him with her gentle eyes full of pain.

"Sssh, this is not the time for hate. Please Erik don't be angry with him. I need you now. I need you to listen to me. I want you to look after my son. Please look after our son."

Erik could barely breathe let alone speak but he found that he did not have to. Christine looked up at him with such trust that even the phantom of the opera found himself moved to tears. Such a gift was beyond imagination. She had not been able to give him her life but this honour was more than enough. She had loved him, that much he knew.

Raoul fell off his horse landing in a rather undignified heap on the ground before standing up to face his rival. Slowly Erik stood, holding Christine's body in his arms like a child's. He faced Raoul expecting a torrent of abuse or at least a sword at his throat but none came. Instead the nobleman fell to the floor the picture of abject misery.

"Oh get up and stop being pathetic. Now take your wife from me with a promise to look after her in death as you did not in life."

Raoul clambered to his feet once more and accepted Christine's body into his arms. With a gentle kiss presses to Christine's lips Erik left, leaving Raoul feeling terribly alone stood in the centre of Paris with the body of his dead wife.


	20. Chapter 20

Lucien quietly slid open the door and peered cautiously out into the main body of the caves. He felt guilty for having run, after all the man, no Erik, had given him more then his father had or his mother could have done. He had cared for him, dried his tears, sang him to sleep and made him feel like a person. And what had he done? He ran away; like a coward. He remembered the pain in Erik's eyes and cried inside for having hurt him so. Why could he not ever do anything right? Seeing that the caves were empty Lucien ventured out made his way over to the organ. He perched on the edge of the organ stool, where he always sat beside Erik, and rested his head on his arms, a strangled sob escaping his lips. Shoulders shaking, he cried his little heart out for having hurt Erik so. At last he cried himself to sleep and did not hear Erik enter the caves once more.

Erik's mind was preoccupied with thoughts of what Christine had just revealed to him, and he only noticed the small figure slumped over his organ when he was nearly upon him. The dark hair was mussed and half obscuring the delicate face beneath it. He brushed it aside, tucking the loose strands behind the boy's ear, as was his habit. He stalled in his movement as he registered the streaks, which no doubt had been left behind by countless tears, tears shed because of him. Sighing, Erik picked the child up and carried him back to his bedroom where he gently settled on the bed and fell asleep cradling his child in his arms.


End file.
